


Fauntlings Shouldn't Have Wings

by Trixylune



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gah, I don't want to spoil it, I have such PLANS, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Titles are hard, bluebell has taken over my life, cats threaten her occasionally, cuteness is my kryptonite, eventual slash, learning to fly is a frightening experience, more tags to come, she's so frickin' cute, she's very spoiled and slightly delusional, surprise parent bilbo, the hoarding of flowers, the shire will adopt anything as long as it values food, tiny dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:42:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3483509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixylune/pseuds/Trixylune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I blame the kink-meme and my addiction to cute.<br/>Prompt:<br/>Gen or Bilbo/Any, Bilbo is already raising a baby dragon when the company arrives.<br/>I've read a lot of fic where Bilbo raises a baby dragon he finds after Smaug.<br/>In this prompt Bilbo is raising a dragon before the Company even arrives at Bag End.<br/>Bonuses: The dragon isn't very big yet.<br/>Raised by a Hobbit, the comfort hoarding dragon's first thought when meeting the dwarrows, is that it really wants Bofur's hat for it's hoard.<br/>Dragon offers up items it hopes Bofur would be willing trade his hat for.<br/>Ori offers to knit something for the dragon.<br/>Extra Double Bonus: somewhere in the story Baby Dragon is sleeping wearing Bofur's hat and a jumper Ori knitted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Egg

**Author's Note:**

> I had a friend read over it, but it's mostly unbetaed, so I apologize for any mistakes.

The merchant thought it was just a very pretty rock. He’d picked it up from some trader in the North, who’d traded it to him for the chance to spend a night in one of his covered wagons, protected from the snow. It was big, sure, and he’d originally thought it might be one of those geodes, with crystals inside. Ultimately of little value, but they sold well as trinkets in places where people could afford to spend on such trifles. The only problem was that he had been completely unable to break it. The stone looked to be some sort of composite rock, made of tiny stones fused together by the heat of a mountain’s heart. It gleamed with all shades of blues and greens, with the occasional bit of clear stone that he’d briefly hoped to be diamond. The trip down the mountains had been harsh though, and by the time they’d stopped in Bree from the East-West Road he had forgotten all about it. When they set up their stalls at the Bree Market, the stone made it onto the table of his eldest son, who was in charge of the trinkets stall.

Many beings, Men and hobbits alike, stopped to eye the pretty baubles, but none looked at the stone with any interest, interested instead in the dwarrow carved toys and smithed book ends. ‘Rohinion’ weaved blankets, horsehair bracelets, and eclectic collections of beads dotted the surface of his table, and the stone looked plain in comparison. 

It wasn’t until their third day there that anyone took a notice of it.

“Ma! Ma! Look, look!” a small hobbitling cried, running up to the table. The merchant’s son turned to keep an eye on him, aware simultaneously for sticky fingers and a possible sale. He pasted a friendly smile on his face when a tiny woman joined the child, her long hair braided back out of her way while her arms carried a basket of food. The boy bounced as he reached for something on the table, and the merchant’s son fended off possible disaster by plopping the stone into his graspy little fingers. Let him handle something that wouldn’t break if he dropped it, or matter much on inventory if it were slipped away while he wasn’t looking.

“Oooooh,” the hobbit boy cooed, looking entranced as he ran his fingers over the rough surface. The merchant’s son saw a quick way to make a small buck.

“Two coppers,” he offered quickly with a charming smile. That was the cost of a pint at the Prancing Pony. His father need never know.

The hobbit lady examined the stone that her son held with such reverence, and sighed with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. “Is that what you want Bilbo? Remember, you only get one thing from the market. If you get this, then no pie later at Mr. Grubbs’ stall.” The boy looked up with what the merchant’s son thought must be a heart warming smile. 

“Oh yes! This is it!” he declared. The merchant accepted the coppers and watched the two wander off, the boy chatting happily at the stone the whole way. He shook his head, slipped the coppers into his pocket, and forgot all about them and the stone.

It was a few days later when Belladonna Baggins first noticed the oddity. “And this is a honey scone, Blue,” her son was saying, voice muffled with what Belladonna guessed was the aforementioned scone. “You can’t have one right now, but they’re super delicious and I want you to know that I would share with you if I could.”

Curious now as to who her son was talking to, especially since he was alone in the kitchen, she peeked her head around the arch of the doorway. Bilbo sat in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, the plate of honey scones Bella had made for elevensies sitting before him. On the table beside the plate was the rock she had purchased for him at the market. It gleamed in the sunlight, all sapphire, diamond, and emerald, almost mesmerizing for a second before Bella focused back on her son.

“Ma makes the best honey scones in the whole of the Shire,” he said to the stone, waving the half a scone left clutched in his left hand. Upon closer inspection she noted the crumbs dusting the front of his shirt, as well as the mud that tracked up his calves. He must have just come in from ‘adventuring’ outside. “The Chubbs argue over that but Ma wins at the fair every year. That’s cause she’s the best cook in the world. And they just don’t like that she’s gone on adventures.” Bilbo swallowed what was in his mouth and leaned closer to the rock. “Someday we’ll go on adventures,” he told it. “And we’ll meet a buncha elves and dwarves too!”

“Who are you talking to dear one?” Belladonna asked, deciding to intervene. She fought back a grin when her son spun around, eyes huge, evidence of his theft still in his hand and crumbled around his mouth. 

“Bluebell,” he mumbled, hiding the rest of the scone behind his back and quickly swiping an arm over his mouth. Bilbo was just now hitting his tweens, at 15 years old, and was still teetering between maturity and childhood. He’d never had an imaginary friend before. Belladonna wondered, a little worried, what spurred the presence of this one.

“Who’s Bluebell?” she asked, playing along. She went and sat next to him, taking a scone for herself. Bilbo watched her for a second before pulling out the rest of his and shoving it all in her mouth. He pointed at the stone wordlessly. 

Belladonna examined the stone for a moment, looking intent. “Well,” she said at last. “She’s very beautiful. I can see why you named her Bluebell.”

“Cause she’s got lotsa blue!” Bilbo said enthusiastically. “And cause she’s named after you, like bell, see?”

Belladonna felt a rush of warmth fill her chest, and hugged her son to her breast before reaching out to pat the egg. Odd. It felt almost warm under her hand. Must be the sunlight. “I’m honored,” she said. And that was how Bilbo got his first imaginary friend.

Only Bluebell was his only imaginary friend. Almost his only friend period. For the next ten years Bilbo carried her everywhere with him, chattering away the whole time. The whole of the Shire knew of the Baggin’s boy, fast approaching his majority and still carrying on whole conversations with a stone, as if it would talk back. They thought he was just a bit strange.

To be honest, Bungo did too.

“Do you think he’s a bit funny in the head?” he asked his wife, two weeks after his son turned twenty eight. He was now five years away from his majority, and nothing summed up his life like the image of him sprawled out on the floor before the fire, dirty feet up in the air as he read Elvish history aloud to the stone.

“I believe everyone’s a bit funny in the head,” Belladonna told him. “Our Bilbo’s specialness is just a bit more… obvious than others’.”

When Bilbo turned thirty, he started leaving Bluebell at home. Belladonna had no doubt that he still talked to the stone – he’d learned by now that it was odd and to keep it quiet, but when pressed he still claimed that Bluebell was alive, and just trapped in the stone for awhile. “She’s going to come out one day,” Bilbo said. “And then everyone will be sorry they doubted.”

Belladonna just shook her head, and mentioned that maybe he could leave her at home now while he wandered. “Don’t want to lose her, do we?” she mentioned. “Especially not now that you’re old enough that your wanderings could take you out of the Shire.”

Bilbo thought about it, and Bella knew that Bungo had sat him down and had a talk about how people saw him and how he’d perhaps need to change his ways now that he was getting older. She saw no sign of Bilbo being uncomfortable around his father at all the next few days, and figured Bungo must have handled it with his typical gentle understanding.

Whatever the cause, Bilbo started leaving Bluebell at home.

She shortly migrated from Bilbo’s dresser to the front hall table, where she oversaw everyone entering and leaving the house. It became a family thing to touch her every time they entered and left the smial “like a good luck stone,” Bungo said once to Belladonna, defensive even as he gave the stone a firm pat.

Bilbo simply smiled.

Bilbo was thirty-five and an adult when the Fell Winter hit, bringing deep snow, starvation, and wolves down upon them. Leaving the smial became rarer, as did Bilbo’s smiles. Every day reports came in of food running low, of wolves carrying off another hobbit. Bag End opened its stores of food to the neighbors, but the problem of getting the food from one hobbit hole to another reared its head. 

“I’m just running this basket down to the Gamgee’s,” Bungo said, wrapping his feet to help keep out the cold. It was the closest thing to shoes that hobbits allowed themselves to wear. 

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Belladonna said firmly, before coughing, the shakes bending her over under their force. Bungo reached out and pulled her close, steadying her until they died down. “At least take Bilbo,” she said weakly, face pale.

“I’m only going down the road,” Bungo said softly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. They stared at each other for a moment, before Bungo dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Bilbo’s going to keep an eye on you, and make sure you take care of yourself.”

“I promise,” Bilbo said, nodding.

“You could just leave me here with Bluebell,” Belladonna said, only half joking, reaching out to pat the stone. Bungo’s hand joined hers on top of the blue green stone. 

“I’ll be fine darling,” he said. He dropped one last kiss on her head, nodded at Bilbo, and picked up the basket before disappearing out the door.

Hours later wolves were heard howling nearby. His remains were found half a week later.

Belladonna didn’t long survive her husband. It was rare in the Shire, but some hobbits simply faded away after losing their spouse, like the elves were rumored too. It was like all of her heart died with her husband. She spent days sitting in the front foyer, just staring silently at Bluebell. Those days even the stone looked gloomy, taking on a grey cast. Bilbo did his best to keep his promise to his father, to take care of her, but it was like when her heart went so did her immune system. She got more and more ill, and it wasn’t even a surprise a few weeks later when she went to sleep one night and didn’t wake back up.

Bilbo had lost both of his parents, and thus everything dear to him, in one short month.

It didn’t take long before his relations started pressuring him to take his place as family head. They didn’t make it out to Bag End much that winter, but whenever someone dropped in to see him he would hear mutters of “still keeps that stone I see” and all he could hear was “he’s still a child, how can he take care of his parents legacy?”

It was after one such visit that Bilbo snapped.

He wasn’t sure when he started but soon he had a huge pile of his remaining toys and ‘weapons’ from his childhood piled in one of the empty cellars, along with some of his supply of firewood. Wine was wasted pouring on the wood so it would burn hot, little thought given to the expense of it. He lit the spark and watched his childhood go up in flames. But that wasn’t all of it. Without thought he found himself upstairs, clutching Bluebell in his hands. His feet carried him back down to the cellar, gaze fixed on the stone, which sat still and silent in his grasp. He held the stone out and dropped it in the wood. With the loss of his last family member, Bilbo broke down and cried, body shaking for hours with deep sobs, curled near the burning of his past, seeing only the long, lonely road of his future stretching ahead of him.

He awoke in the morning to cries that weren’t his own and rolled over to find a tiny lizard, bright blue and speckled with emerald and diamond, calling with hunger.


	2. The Fauntling

Bilbo half thought he was just extremely hungover as he stumbled upstairs, covered in soot and smelling of wine with a loudly complaining dragon perched on his head. He winced as he turned a corner a bit too fast and tiny claws dug into his forehead. Wings, heavy with some sort of goop, flared high as the dracling almost tumbled sideways into a door frame. The cries increased in frequency. He paused to try to untangle the beastie, but it simply latched tighter into his hair and the now high pitched cries became louder. 

Bilbo wanted to pinch himself, but the blood beginning to trickle down his forehead told him it would be a useless endeavor. The dragon, however, quieted. A few seconds later, as Bilbo moved at a slower pace through the kitchen, a warm tongue traced his forehead, swiping along the wound. 

“Okay, no,” he said firmly, pulling the dragon off his head and ignoring the pulling on his hair. “I am not food,” he told the palm sized creature. The dragon’s pupils expanded, turning the clear irises black.

“Bee!” it commanded imperiously. 

Bilbo swallowed. Hard.

“Bee!” it said again. “Food!”

“Bluebell…?” he whispered, collapsing against the wall for support. He stared down at the tiny dragon, his mind racing to fit all the pieces together.

The dragon preened.

“Food!” Bluebell commanded. “Bath!”

Bilbo hurried into the pantry, and came out with a whole rack of lamb. He’d barely unwrapped it when Bluebell dove in, fangs bared, seemingly caring naught for the dripping blood or the excess of preservative salts. She cleaned an entire rib-bone, a section almost larger than she was, and then paused, licking a wing clean. 

“Bath?” Bilbo asked, remembering her demand. Bluebell cooed. 

One quick bath later and Bilbo found her climbing his arm, making a soft chirping sound until she tucked herself under his collar, body and tail wrapped around the back side of his neck. The little hairs there fought to rise from the cold, but he didn’t dare disturb her from her perch.

He thought he might be in a bit of shock.

Those first few days, that was all she did. It was a constant flux of sleep and eat, sleep and eat. Bilbo didn’t leave the smial for anything, finding purpose in carrying the baby dragon around and caring for her needs. She grew half an inch in the first week, and cleared up her speaking immensely. It was as if now that she could practice, her confusion with the common tongue cleared up with all due speed. Soon she was running around, her wings floppy and a bit useless so far, asking Bilbo to identify things she’d only heard about through her shell.

“I know you,” she’d assured Bilbo the second day. “You took me on adventures, and we looked for elves, though I’m still not sure what elves are,” she muttered, frowning. Bilbo resisted the urge to coo, and simply rubbed along her eyelid instead. She purred, the question of elves forgotten.

She had been less than a week out of the shell when she made a life changing decision.

“I want to go outside,” she told Bilbo. He faltered, somewhat unwilling to take her outdoors. It was like she only existed here, in Bag End, and he was afraid that if he took her outside she would fade away like mist through his fingertips. Nonetheless, after elevensies he scooped her up, and carried her through the front door. He didn’t go far, sitting on the stone bench next to his door and admiring the way her scales glinted in the sunlight. She climbed up on his head, as was her wont, and examined the world. 

“There are so many colors!” she exclaimed, and Bilbo felt a smile form on his face for the first time in a long while.

“There will be even more as the spring progresses,” he told her. “The blooms will grow, and-“

Bluebell leaped off his head.

Bilbo panicked and grabbed for her, but she slipped through his fingers, and disappeared into the shrubbery with a crash.

“OW!” she yelled, and there was a lot of racket and splintering sounds as she apparently flailed in the partially leaved branches.

“Mr. Baggins?” someone enquired, and Bilbo turned rather desperately to find Hamfast Gamgee, his gardener, observing him with a sense of bafflement. The complaints from the bush faded into wordless cries, and Bilbo turned again to dig through the bush, speaking all the while. 

“Stop struggling, Bluebell,” he soothed, working his hands in past prickly branches. The sounds of combat faded, and he was able to gently maneuver the small dragon out of the bush.

“Mr. Baggins,” Hamfast said again from behind, sounding sympathetic. Bilbo thought, with a pang of humor, that he must think his employer had totally lost it over the harsh winter, talking once again to his childhood imaginary friend. Hamfast was indeed thinking such a thing, and thus was entirely shocked when Bilbo turned around with a blue-green dragon crouched in his hands.

“Wha- what….?” He whispered, eyes huge and fixed on the tiny being. 

“Hamfast!” the dragon called, wings flaring high, and the gardener couldn’t take any more. He fainted.

He awoke to arguing. “Why did you even leap into the bush?” Bilbo was demanding. 

“I wanted to see what it felt like!” a female voice replied. It sounded young, and Hamfast wondered when Mr. Baggins had gotten a fauntling. “Plus I thought I could fly over it!”

“Yavanna save me from fauntlings with wings,” Bilbo grumbled, and Hamfast opened his eyes to find him looking fondly down at a squash sized dragon, who gleamed in the sunlight that came through the window like the sky framed against the treetops on a beautiful summers day. 

“You’re real,” he breathed, and the dragon’s focus landed firmly on him. 

“You’re awake!” she chirped back. She took a deep breath. “Hello friend!” she greeted. “My name is Bluebell, and I am not looking to eat you or burn you or take your home. I wouldn’t say no to a chicken though. Or a pigeon. Or bacon! I love bacon.” She paused again, head tilted as if thinking, and then turned to Bilbo. 

“Did I do that right?” she asked. Bilbo groaned.

Her introduction to the rest of Hobbiton went about the same way. Hamfast and Bilbo couldn’t quite think of a good way to break it to the rest of the hobbits, so Hamfast started by telling his family, who all rushed over to meet her, and then quested across the town to Tuckburough to speak to the Thain. 

Bilbo waited anxiously, and it seemed to be for nothing when the Thain arrived, stared down the baby dragon, and began to question her and Bilbo alike. He seemed convinced that she was peaceful by the time he left Bag End, and Bilbo found a stream of Tooks invading his smial over the next few weeks, all bearing a gift of meat for the dragon. Soon Bucklanders were joining, and then local families, all coming supposedly for tea, but ending up sitting and gawking at Bluebell, who either preened under the attention or slept boredly through the whole thing.

After a month, Bluebell was still the center of the gossip chain, Bilbo Baggins’ imaginary friend come to life, and as a dragon besides, but the constant influx of people had died down. Bilbo passed the time reading his adventure stories to the tiny dragon, who seemed fascinated, especially when other dragons were involved.

“And they burn down houses?” she wondered. 

“That seems to be traditional, yes,” Bilbo said.

“Is that why the Thain asked me about if I could make a fire?” she questioned. “I told him I probably could if I had a flint. I may not have fingers but I can do anything,” she said, nodding firmly. Bilbo stifled a laugh. 

“I’m sure you could, darling,” he said, scratching her eye ridge. Her eyes closed in pleasure. 

“But I don’t see the wisdom in burning down houses. Couldn’t you just… live in them?” she pursued. 

“I believe these dragons are much to big for that,” Bilbo countered, amused.

“And gems!” she said, seemingly ignoring his commentary. “What are gems I ask you, and why are they so valuable?”

“Well,” Bilbo started. He stopped. Hobbits weren’t exactly the best creatures to ask about the value of stones. “They come in all colors of the rainbow,” he said, using a reference Bluebell would know of. “And many of the other races use them as currency. For example, the garnet they mention, is similar in color to that scarf Lobelia wore last time she stopped by. Rubies are similar in color, but brighter, like blood, almost.”

“Hmph,” she scoffed, turning her head so he scratched further back along her ear. “Oooh, a little harder, that’s it.” 

Spring was in full swing after the hard winter, and everyone was too busy with planting to worry too much about the local dragon, and afterwards she was such a commonplace topic that everyone began to treat her as old news. And thus Bluebell became an accepted member of the Shire, at least to most.

She began to spend more time outside, stretching her wings and absorbing sunlight as if it were the cause of her growth. She had doubled in size in only a few weeks, and now could curl her tail around the length of neck that her whole body used to take. If she curled all the way around his neck, as she often did, the tip of her tail could just brush her nose. Her consumption of meat had begun to die down, leading Bilbo to hope that she would slow in her growing as well.

Hamfast and his children were her only regular exposure to other hobbits, and she had occasionally deemed it acceptable to leave Bilbo’s shoulder and perch on little Samwise’s instead, as he followed his father around the garden. Thus, she was right there when the first tulip sprouted, and Bluebell’s eyes widened comically. “Rubies,” she breathed. The rose bushes’ bulbs opened the next day, and were quickly labeled ‘garnets’. Soon enough, the whole garden had been renamed, and Bilbo had never seen Bluebell more content. She loved to ride around on someone’s shoulder, surveying the blooms of the garden and reviewing the state of her ‘hoard’. Hamfast thought it was adorable, and began to teach her as much as he could about growing things.

Fall seemed to come speeding up, and the trees began to turn colors. It was only late October when the first heavy snow hit. Bluebell and Bilbo woke up one morning to find everything covered in a thick layer of snow. Bilbo mused that he’d need to get back out his hat and gloves. 

Bluebell was devastated.

“But where did they all go?!” she bemoaned, sitting in the middle of the yard and staring around at the desolate garden. “Everything’s gone.” She looked so lost – a tiny figure in the middle of the snow. 

“It’s alright,” Bilbo told her. “It’ll come back next spring.”

She looked horrified. By the time Hamfast came to check on the flowers, she had dug a cave in the middle of the yard and was threatening to live out there until her ‘gems’ were returned to her.

This prompted a very quick botany lesson from Hamfast, who had barely begun to explain the waning of the plant life cycle around winter when the snow had come. An hour later Bluebell returned inside, looking gloomier than Bilbo had ever seen her, and looking no worse for the wear for her time in the cold.

If she clung harder to him that winter than she had before, he didn’t say a word.


	3. The First Dwarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin arrives and Bluebell achieves true flight for the first time and doesn't even realize it.

Twenty Years later:

“Bilbo Baggins! I’m coming in and you better have that beast under control!” Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ voice was unmistakable, and Bilbo winced as he sat up from where he’d been lounging in the sun in his back garden.

“Of course it’s her,” Bluebell muttered, flaring her wings in what Bilbo had learned was a draconic sign of aggression. 

“Oh hush,” Hamfast said absently before Bilbo could say anything, trimming another branch of the rose bush he was tending down to size. His tolerant regard was vastly different then the abject horror he’d displayed two decades before when he’d showed up to work and found a palm sized dragon terrorizing the greenery. Bluebell was much bigger than that now, though there were still house cats wandering around that were twice her size, a fact that caused her and Bilbo some dismay though for differing reasons. She was still small enough to perch on Bilbo’s shoulder, curling her tail around the entirety of his neck like the gaudiest necklace a hobbit had ever owned. 

Currently she was perched on the windowsill, looking like nothing so much as the gargoyles that sometimes decorated the castles of mythical kings, overseeing Hamfast’s trimming of the roses. The older hobbit had been confused at first by the small dragon’s defense of the blooms, but had been forced to adjust to the dragon’s attitude towards what she stubbornly referred to as her ‘gems’. Bilbo sometimes regretted reading those dwarven tomes to her. She still called the roses ‘garnets’. 

To a casual listener his garden must sound like the greatest treasure the Shire has ever seen.

Hamfast quickly found a pupil in Bluebell who treasured growing things the same as he. He had unfortunately had to be the one to talk her in out of the snow when her first winter had frozen her blooms, sending her into a downward spiral of loss that had ended with her nesting in the center of the dying garden in a cave she’d carved in the snow, determined to wait until her treasures were returned. He had assured her the blooms would return next year, and informed her firmly that this would happen every year, that it was a natural part of the earth’s cycle, and that she should stop being ridiculous and come inside that instant. Blue had been surprised out of her funk by a tirade of questions, and she still hoarded questions to ask Hamfast whenever he arrived. (“Why don’t mushrooms need sunlight?” “Why to the sunflowers move to follow the sun?” “How do I get rid of those thieving caterpillars that are eating the tomatos?” Bilbo had suggested she just eat them, but Blue had waited until Hamfast could make the same suggestion before beginning her massacre in the garden.)

She had come inside, her lack of shivering or signs of cold confirming Bilbo’s guess towards her nature, and if she still clings to Bilbo more than usual in the winter months, well, no one would mention it.

But just because Hamfast had recovered from his first encounter with the dragon, didn’t mean that all of Hobbiton had, and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was one of the worst anti-dragon activists to visit Bag End. At the very least, she was the most persistent.

“There you are,” she huffed, coming through the backdoor. “I should have guessed you’d be lazing around outside like some ragamuffin.” Bilbo let out a put upon sigh that almost drowned out Bluebell’s soft hiss. Lobelia cast a disdainful look at the small dragon, who puffed up her chest, claws tightening on the windowsill in preparation to spring.

“Blue, darling, don’t crack the paint, it’s brand new,” Bilbo said consolingly, and Blue snorted before throwing herself into the air, gliding with only a few wobbles into Bilbo’s outstretched arms. Flying had been one of the most nerve wracking things for Bilbo to try to teach his tiny darling, who had had several accidents on her own leaping from the highest places she could reach before he’d given in and tried to find a way to teach her. She had been scornful of Dorian Chubb’s falcons at first, but after a few days of watching them fly around, had learned enough that she could initiate short bursts of flight, though Bilbo noticed she still stuck mostly to gliding. It worried him sometimes that he didn’t know what would be ordinary for a dragon her age to know, but he didn’t suppose there was anything for him to compare it too and he’d let it go.

“Oh look, it’s learned some manners,” Lobelia said, and Hamfast lowered his clippers, stepping between Bilbo and Lobelia. 

“Lobelia, you know by now that Bluebell is a she. Or has that escaped your mind as easily as your own bridal shower?” he asked innocently, and Lobelia huffed, flushing. It had been the biggest scandal of the year when Lobelia had showed up three hours late to her own shower, having arranged a fitting in Bree at the same time she’d scheduled the party.

“Many brides struggle under the pressure to plan a wedding,” Lobelia said defensively. “Not something you’d know much about right Bilbo?”

“What do you want Lobelia?” Bilbo sighed, stroking along the ridges above Blue’s eyes. Her chest vibrated in a silent rumble, her eyes closing in pleasure and all tension leaking out of her, till she lay complacent in his arms. 

“It’s rude of you not to offer tea to your guests,” Lobelia said, deflecting.

“It’s rude of you to enter another’s home uninvited,” Bilbo responded. Lobelia deflated before flouncing over and plopping into the grass next to Bilbo. She handed him a cream envelope, and he retaliated by dumping Bluebell into her arms. Both hobbit and dragon grumbled, but Blue burrowed into the plentiful fabric of Lobelia’s skirts and Lobelia took up massaging across the dragon’s shoulders, where her muscles often tensed after flight.

Lobelia carefully didn’t look at him and she focused on the dragon as Bilbo shimmied open the envelope. She didn’t wait for him to read it before blurting out “I’m pregnant.” Bilbo paused in his reading, looking at her over the top of the paper. Lobelia flushed. “It’s an invitation for my baby shower. I promise I won’t be late to this one.”

“Congratulations!” he said, breaking into a huge grin. Lobelia cast a sideways look at his face and then flushed a deeper red, turning back to Bluebell. Who had sat up and was now peering up into her face. Lobelia blinked, and Bluebell rested her front paws on Lobelia’s hands, her serpentine neck stretched to its limits as she tried to look the hobbit lady in the eye.

“Isn’t pregnant when you swell up like a watermelon and then a bird abandons a baby in your garden?” she asked, and Bilbo snorted inelegantly. Lobelia raised a brow, face stern.

“You’re confusing the coming of baby hobbits with the delivering of you,” Lobelia said firmly.

“Nuh uh!” Blue objected, wings flaring a little. “I was born in the basement of Bag End!”

“And almost burned the house down when you arrived I heard,” Lobelia snarked.

“So says the lady who’s going to end up raising an unwanted mutant bird!”

“That is not what pregnant means,” Lobelia said finally. “My baby will be one hundred percent hobbit!”

“I don’t know,” Bilbo said, trying not to laugh, “with you as a mother it might end up half dragon.” Both lady and dragon shot him matching horrified looks, and Bilbo couldn’t hold it in anymore and burst into laughter, joined by Hamfast who was chuckling quietly from the other side of the garden.

Not long after that Lobelia left, claiming she had dinner with the in-laws to plan, and Hamfast finished up his gardening and also took his leave. It wasn’t quite time for elevensies, so Bilbo headed to the front stoop for a smoke, leaving Bluebell inside the smial to nap. She hated the smoke, and refused to join him whenever he partook in a pipe.

He was enjoying the peace and quiet, rare after Bluebell came into his life, when he noticed a Man standing on the path before him. He paused, waiting for him to introduce himself, but the man said nothing. “Good morning,” Bilbo greeted finally, a bit irritated at the lack of manners displayed by his visitor.

The wizard talked in circles for a bit, which Bilbo rather guiltily enjoyed (he did so like his riddles), and then invited him on an adventure.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo began. “But my current lifestyle is ill-disposed for an adventure.” He hesitated to mention Bluebell. He wasn’t sure how the Wizard would react to the dragon, and didn’t want to risk him deciding to kill her. Bilbo was ill-equipped to fight him off. 

Maybe he should look into getting lessons from the Rangers, he mused as he got his mail, and suggested some of his cousins to the wizard before the Gandalf wandered off, saying he’d ‘inform the others’. Strangely pleased with this odd encounter, he made sure to mention it to Bluebell, who was very excited to hear about the visit, and oddly fascinated by the mention of the Wizard. They went throughout their day in the regular fashion, making a quick trip to market and buying Lobelia a shower gift (it was never too soon, and Bluebell was charmed by the tiny stuffed sheep with a little silver bell around its neck). 

Satisfied with their day’s findings, they returned to Bag End for supper, only to be interrupted by a knock.

**

The Shire was an unusual place, Dwalin mused as he trod along the well worn dirt pathway. At first glance it appeared empty of people, just an endless expanse of fields and hills, and had he not encountered a few of the short, round people that lived here Dwalin was sure he could be convinced that no one lived here indeed. Maybe it was a part of their defense system. One couldn’t kill what they couldn’t find, after all, and these people didn’t look much like warriors, no matter how antagonistic their glares.

The Wizard’s directions had been a bit lacking, but he was sure he’d made good time when he finally spotted the carved rune on the doorway, marking the house of their burglar. At least they lived properly underground, Dwalin thought, waiting for the door to open. It was no wonder the occasional rumor of a dragon’s existence circulated here. It was hard to tell how big their spaces were underground, so it was easy for Men’s imaginations to run away with them. That, or the tall folk really couldn’t tell the difference between the two smaller races and thought the hobbits had been invaded by Smaug rather than Erebor.

It had been long enough since the invasion that Dwalin could think such a joke and not choke up, but he was still hit with a brief sense of smoke and screams. It was possibly why his reaction was so extreme when the door swung open, and behind the rotund hobbit he assumed to be their burglar, he spotted a dragon.

The size didn’t register in his clouded mind – nor did the difference in color, or the obvious comfort and security it felt curled up on a perch wooden perch, about chest height, wrapped in fox furs and tiny lacey things and one large knitted blanket. He saw only sprawled wings, shining scales, and glinting reptilian eyes as they peeked open to check who was at the door.

He roared, drew his axes, and pushed past the utterly shocked hobbit, thundering into the hobbit hole. The dragon’s eyes flew open, and it tried to scramble to its feet, but it was caught in the blanket, and Dwalin registered only the knowledge that this weakness would be its downfall.  
He was thwarted from his victory by a weight hitting his feet, arms wrapping around both his legs and sending him crashing to the ground. He tried to curse and kick, but the grip on his knees was firm and he couldn’t get any force. The fur on his collar muffled his voice as his arms came up to protect his head from the tiny dragon which was dive bombing it, screaming something about a “Bilbo” and “not at all proper behavior” and "soft footed clothead" and “THIEF”, and Dwalin heard a quietly admonishing “BLUEBELL,” from around his feet.

The aerial attack stopped, and Dwalin peered up to find the dragon (tinier than he’d thought) sitting on its perch hissing, wings flared as high as they would go. “I will get a Sheriff,” it growled threateningly. Dwalin thought wildly that any menace in its tone was averted by the girl-child’s voice it was using. Confused, he continued to lie there, even when the weight on his feet went away. 

“Mr. Dwarf,” a male voice said, words clipped and proper. He sounded like a lordling, like Balin when he was being official, all clean words and overbearing tone. It was the kind of voice that usually put Dwalin’s hackles up. “I do not know how your race does things but in the Shire it is terribly rude to invade one’s home and attack their families.”

“But –“ Dwalin began roughly, eyeing his fallen axes, lying a bare foot beyond his reach to either side.

“No matter their race!” the hobbit continued, talking over anything Dwalin might have said. 

“It’s a drag –“

“SHE,” he began, leaning down to pick up one of Dwalin’s axes. Dwalin caught a glimpse of honey gold curls and calloused hands as he considered whether or not to grab the hobbit while he was within reach. The piercing stare from the dragon made him reconsider. He wouldn’t be surprised if those tiny fangs were poisonous. He’d have to have Oin look at the cuts on his head later.

“She,” he continued, quieter, “is a widely accepted member of the Shire, and a member of the Baggins family. NOT an uninvited guest.” There was a pause. “Like you,” he finished pointedly.

“Well,” Dwalin said, suffering from the feeling that this was all rather surreal. “Gandalf –“

“That Wizard,” Bilbo muttered. “Should have known.”

“Gandalf said that we would be welcome here. That there would be plenty of food and a place to stay the night at that,” Dwalin finished, beginning to think the Wizard had set them up somehow. Maybe he wasn’t as supportive of their quest as Thorin had informed them, and set them up to face this dragon instead.

“There are MORE of you?” the dragon demanded. “Bilbo, there are going to be MORE.”

“I heard darling,” he said gently, leaning Dwalin’s axes against the wall by the door. Dwalin hesitantly gained his feet, keeping a wary eye on the dragon who was still prepared to launch itself off of the perch. 

“Either way,” he said finally. “I think we would all be more comfortable if you waited outside until Gandalf arrives to clear this up.” He shifted a bit on his feet. “Food and refreshments will be provided,” he added, sounding reluctant. As he was hastened outside with the promise of tea and scones to come and the round green door was slammed in his face, Dwalin checked again that it was the correct rune on the door. 

“The Wizard had better have a good explanation for this,” he growled, and sat down on the door step to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Lobelia. Anyone brave enough to take on evil with only an umbrella has got to have good points. And she and Bilbo are BFFs that connect by sniping at one another, and he won't make her baby shower or even the birth because he'll be gone slaying a grown up dragon, and Lobelia will never let him live it down.


	4. The Dwarves Multiply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Bluebell meet the Company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is so late! *bows* Many things happened, but no excuses. The next one should be out soon!

“Bilbo they’re multiplying,” Bluebell hissed, tail lashing as she looked out one of the small windows by the door. “There are like ten of them Bilbo. TEN.”

“There are four,” Bilbo sighed, stroking over her head and down her back. He finished the movement with a tweak to her tail, causing her to turn and blow chilly air over his hand. Her tail flicked away from his grasp and slapped into the wall.

“OW,” she yowled, and Bilbo stifled a smile when her first response was to slither up into his arms, claws digging into his waistcoat. He had started wearing them all the time when he realized the second, thicker layer helped protect him from her needlesharp claws. “Bilbo, my tail,” she whined, curling it up around her body and pressing against his chest. 

“Sorry Darling,” he said, tucking her head across his neck so she wouldn’t see the amusement on his face. 

“And that dwarf tried to kill me!” she added, trying to gain more sympathy. 

“You’ve had a rough day haven’t you?” he consoled. She sniffled. He took a deep breath to hide his chuckle.

“How do you feel about the axes that have been added to your hoard?” he questioned, eyeing the blades propped near the doorway. He was considering keeping them as trophies, just out of spite for the throbbing in his knees and the heart attack he’d nearly had when the dwarf had drawn steel and charged Bluebell.

“Those aren’t ours,” she sniffed, peering around to eye the blades. “That’d be like when Lobelia tries to steal your spoons, right? We can’t take things that aren’t ours.” Even as she repeated that (rote, clearly repeating what she’d heard a million times) he could see her considering it. Suddenly she perked up.

“They’re trophies of war!” she declared.

“What?” Bilbo questioned, leaning to peer out the window. The dwarves had multiplied again, and the taller form was clearly Gandalf. Finally.

“You won them for me!” Bluebell said, her voice rising with excitement. “You saved me, and defeated the dwarf, and you claimed them as… as items claimed in conquest! Bilbo,” she whispered, staring up into his face with wide eyes. “You’re a hero.”

Bilbo sputtered, but luckily his embarassment was interrupted by a firm knock on the door. Bluebell tensed, and Bilbo straightened his spine, carrying her over to swing open the door.

A huge face under an even bigger hat peered down at him, and then poofy eyebrows rose in surprise. Gandalf eyed Bluebell, settling back onto his heels.

I see there are some things you haven’t told me Bilbo,” he said admonishingly. Bluebell hissed, bristling, her wings going stiff.

“You mean when I told you that I had responsibilities here and couldn’t go haring off on some quest?” Bilbo inquired politely. Gandalf huffed. 

“Well, there was certainly no mention of this,” Gandalf said, nodding at Bluebell.

“I am not a this,” she told him primly, and Bilbo realized she was mimicing Lobelia’s snotty tone perfectly. He coughed. “I am a she. I even have a name. Imagine that.”

Gandalf was silent.

“What is your name?” another voice piped up. A young dwarf with a baggy sweater blinked innocently from the front of the solid circle of dwarves. A silver haired dwarf grabbed his head and he was quickly absorbed back into the group, disappearing from sight.

“It’s rude to ask for another’s name without providing yours first,” Bluebell informed them as a group.

“Well, I am Gandalf the Grey,” the wizard announced. “I was a friend of Bilbo’s mother. Who are you, young drake?”

“My name is Bluebell,” the dragon said, hauling herself up on Bilbo’s shoulder. She braced her forepaws on his curls, stretching her neck up to its full length. Even with the added extension she didn’t even reach the wizard’s shoulders. “You knew Belladonna?”

Gandalf was clearly surprised again, but nodded. “We went on an adventure once.”

Bluebell relaxed slightly. “Story?” she requested, one paw leaving his head to wave slightly in the air. 

“I’m sure Gandalf would not have time for that,” Bilbo said abruptly, “as he has an adventure to go on and all.”

“One night!” Bluebell said, excited. “And we can tell him the story of your conquest over the dwarf that attacked me!”

There was an outbreak of muttering among the dwarves, and one of them snickered. He was quickly pushed to the back of the group.

“Conquest?” the one at the front muttered to the dwarf who had attacked them. The burly dwarf blushed. 

“The Wizard didn’t say there would be a dragon,” he defended himself, low voice still easily heard from the doorway. 

“The Wizard DID say that we were expected and the dinner would be provided,” the front dwarf said, his piercing gaze fixing itself briefly on the Wizard, before settling on Bilbo. He shivered at the intensity in the pale gaze, and hoped his discomposure wasn’t obvious. 

“Well,” Gandalf huffed. “I was thinking of the usual hospitality of hobbits…”

“Rude,” Bluebell huffed back, snorting a bit of icy wind up at his face. “You can’t just present yourself to someone and expect them to put up with you. You have to send letters. You have to announce intentions.”

“Why?” a red-headed dwarf wondered.

“I don’t know!” Bluebell cried. “It’s a mystery! Whenever I ask they just say it is proper behavior!” In her outrage, Bluebell overbalanced and teetered backwards. Bilbo reached a hand back and caught her at the base of his spine. A few laughs rang out among the dwarves. Flushing red, Bilbo pulled her around in front of him. She was silent, pulling herself back up to his shoulder and settling her wings into place with her nose.

Gandalf was beaming.

“You may as well come in,” Bilbo said grudgingly when it became clear that no one was going to say anything else. “I can’t promise a feast but my pantries are full.”

“Thank you Bilbo,” Gandalf said, nodding before striding through the open door of Bag End. The dwarves hesitated, before the burly dwarve strode forward. He gave Bilbo a nod, eyes hesitating briefly on Bluebell before he continued through the door. The others filed slowly past.

“Pantries?” a dark haired one muttered. “As in multiples?”

“Good thing you’re so smart Kee,” the blonde walking behind him muttered back. Bluebell snorted. Bilbo rubbed his suddenly icy ear before following his guests back into his home.


End file.
